A Captive Heart

by Patricia Scott

  At least it got him out of house and shop, into the summer countryside, and there was no limit set on the time of his return. Out of anyone’s sight, in the country roads, he dawdled, free for once to think and daydream without interruption. At home there was always noise, some demand.

  Late in the afternoon he realised he should have planned his round more carefully, for he was riding west, into the sun. It was a hot day and he was thirsty. He pulled his hat lower over his eyes, remembering with pleasure that going west would take him past Shottery, where the Hathaways lived. He had one last delivery to make, then on his way home he could stop at Hewlands Farm and beg a drink. Maybe Anne would be there. He had liked her that day at market. She was the only person he had met since he came home who didn’t meet his jokes with a blank stare.

  Then, as if his thoughts had conjured her up, he saw her. He recognised her at once, even though she was hopping and stumbling down the road. For an instant he wondered if she was drunk or suffered from the falling sickness, then as he drew closer he saw she was merely favouring her right foot.

  “Madam! Anne! What’s wrong? Can I help?” He reined in, and swung down from the saddle.

  “Oh, William. What are you doing out here?”

  He held out his arm for her hand, letting her lean on him. “Deliveries for my father. Sprained your ankle?”

  “Turned it,” she said through clenched teeth. “I climbed a gate instead of opening it. I jumped down and fell awkwardly. It’s nothing much, but it does hurt.”

  “Are you on your way home?”

  “Yes, from Temple Grafton. It’s only another half mile.”

  “I know. I’ll take you home. You can ride up in front of me on the horse.”

  “I’d be grateful,” she said. “Thank you. If it’s not taking you too far out of your way?”

  “Not at all. It will hurt your ankle somewhat, getting up, but there’s no help for it, I’m afraid.” Wincing, she put her weight on her right foot. He took her left in his hands and tossed her up. She had to scramble to get her seat, clutching the horse’s mane, then she nodded and he put his foot in the stirrup and mounted up behind her. The horse had stood patiently, and now walked on when he shook the reins.

  After a moment he said, “It will be easier if you lean back against me. I’m afraid you’ll have to take off your hat.”

  She did so, holding it rolled against her knee. Her hair was a pretty shade of dark brown, shot through with autumn-leaf colours. She must have washed it not long since, for over the dust of the road and her fresh sweat, he could smell soap and rosemary. She was a slender woman and not tall; she fitted nicely into the curve of his arm, against his shoulder. He had never held a woman so closely before, even in all innocence like this. Before he went to Lancashire he’d taken little interest in girls, and, there, he had been closely supervised. One of the maidservants had kissed him at Christmas and made it plain he need not stop at kissing, but she had been a loose and reechy girl, as repellent as attractive, and he had taken fright. The gentle swell of Anne’s breast was pressing against his arm. Nothing he could do about that, even had he wanted to.

  As if conscious of the same thing, she shifted a little to sit more upright. “Are you still bored with Stratford?” she asked, making conversation.

  “Yes.” He saw her eyebrows lift and realised how short he had sounded. “Sorry. But yes, I am bored. I can’t help it. Aren’t you ever bored with your life?”

  “Often. Not much I can do about it, though. I suppose it is worse for you, having been away, having experienced other things and places, I mean.”

  “It’s partly that. And… well, my parents won’t listen. They want the best for me, I suppose, but it’s the same old things, same old ideas as if I were still a child. I’m to work at the grammar school, usher to the little boys.”

  “And you don’t want that?”

  “It’s not what I would choose but I don’t mind it. I quite liked being a tutor, although that was in a private house. But – if I tell you, you won’t laugh?”

  “Of course not,” she said gently.

  “I told you at market last week that I had gone to London. Well, while I was there I went to the playhouses, all of them, and I saw every play I could. And that is what I want to do. To be a player. To join one of the theatre companies. My parents won’t hear of it, of course.”

  “Perhaps they think you’re too young yet.”

  “It’s not only that. They say it’s not respectable, but what they mean is that no one in our family has ever done anything like that before, therefore no one ever shall. I shall not.”

  “You’re the eldest son. Your father must want you to take over his business.”

  “Perhaps he does, eventually, but for now it’s the grammar school. I have to earn. My brother Gilbert, too. I’m to be an usher, Gilbert a haberdasher, probably Richard’s to work for Father in a year or two. Meanwhile Father kills two birds with one stone – sends us out to work and gets the indenture from the apprentices he takes on in the business. Not that I’ll earn much as a junior usher. It’s not as if I have a university degree. I could probably make more as a player but of course they won’t hear of it.”

  “Perhaps they just don’t want you to go away. Their eldest son must be special to them.”

  “They sent me away before when I was only sixteen, and sent me much further than to London.”

  “You resent that?”

  It was the first time he had thought of it in just those terms. “I think I do, a little. I did miss my home and family, at least at first. But I enjoyed those two years. I wanted to stay on in the north, but my employer died and there were other difficulties. Catholic sympathies.”

  “Ah.”

  Her eyes were grey, a soft clear colour emphasised by the darkness of her brows and lashes. She was not quite pretty, but she had something; any man would call her attractive. He tried to remember how old she was, how much older than he. Certainly old enough to have been trusted to mind him and his brother when they were children.

  Not knowing why he said something so dangerous, except that he liked her eyes and she was the only person who had ever listened to him, he said, “My father too. Catholic sympathies. He conforms, of course, and I’ve not seen him do anything open, but it’s – well, it’s one of those things that are known within a family. I hope it’s no more than sympathies.” Belatedly, more boyishly than he realised, he added, “You won’t repeat that to anyone, will you?”

  “Of course not. For one thing, you told me in confidence; for another, your father was my father’s friend. Plenty of Catholic sympathisers around here, too.”

  “But not you?”

  “No. My stepmother and brother incline to Puritanism, but my father was staunchly Church of England. I do what is lawful.”

  “Me too,” he said, and laughed. “And sometimes I do what is right.”

  “Often not the same thing, I agree.”

  “No. But, to be both right and lawful, I shall stay here obeying my parents until I’m of age. Three years.”

  “And then?”

  “I shall do what I want. Go to London. Try to join one of the playing companies. And – this is what I meant before when I hoped you wouldn’t laugh. I know how it sounds, but…”

  “Tell. I shan’t laugh.”

  “Well then, I think I could write.”

  She didn’t laugh. She said, puzzled, “Write? Books?”

  “I meant plays. Poetry too, perhaps. I am sure I could. Always I have such ideas; words, tales and legends. I wrote, well, helped with, a masque for Lord Stanley when I was in the north, and I know I could write.” He caught her eye. “I suppose I only mean I want to.”

  “I’ve never known anyone who even thought of such things, but I’m sure you could. Have you ever tried? Writing a play, I mean.”

  “Er, no, not really.”

  “And your experience is limited to the plays you saw during your week in London?”

&nbs
p; “There is no need,” he said stiffly, “to make fun of me.”

  “I wasn’t. But I do think that perhaps you’re not yet quite equipped to take London by storm. And making plays might be harder than you think. If your parents won’t let you go away, you’ve got three years. You might as well make use of the time. Look, I know it’s not exactly London, but my cousin Frances married Mr Davy Jones in Stratford and he has a little troupe of mummers. He sometimes puts on a play.”

  “I don’t know him.”

  “I could introduce you. You could ask him if you could write something for his players. Perhaps you could take part. It’s a start. You could write something and next time one of the touring companies is in town, you could show it to them; get a professional opinion.”

  “That’s good sense. Would you really introduce me to Mr Jones?”

  “Nothing simpler.”

  “Thank you. And, if I wrote something, would you… I mean… could I show it to you? Read it to you?”

  “Oh, William, I’m no judge. I’d have no idea.”

  “Why not? You’ve seen plays. And you’re a clever woman.”

  “You’d better stop.”

  “I didn’t mean to sound impertinent.”

  “No, I meant you’re about to go past our gate.”

  “Oh.” He had been so swept up in his grievances that he had forgotten she was more than a chance-come-by and welcome listener. “I’m sorry, I forgot. Is your ankle very bad?”

  “Better for not walking on it. If you could set me down now…”

  “Oh no, I’ll see you inside, help you. Is there someone at home to care for you?” Earnestly he said, “You should soak your foot in cold water, then bandage it up.” Leaning down, he unhooked the gate and kicked it open. The horse seemed to remember it had been here before, and approved, for it walked contentedly into the farmyard behind the house.

  “My stepmother’s probably at home. The maids will be.”

  “I’ll help you in,” he insisted. She began to demur, but when he dismounted and lifted her down and she put weight on her damaged foot, she gasped and he saw her turn pale. Quickly he put his arm around her. Then, with a better idea, he simply lifted her up in his arms and carried her into the house.

  Anne’s home was a large, handsome house, built on a slope running down to a brook. To one side was an orchard, to the other a spreading kitchen garden. The kitchen into which William carried Anne was broad and low-ceilinged, spotless, and full of good cooking smells. Two maidservants, three children and a little, round, fair-haired woman all turned to stare at Anne in a strange man’s arms.

  “Mother,” she said hastily, “I turned my ankle – nothing too bad – and very luckily William Shakspere found me on the way and gave me a ride home. William, you remember my stepmother, Mrs Hathaway.”

  “Of course. Good afternoon, madam.”

  “Good day to you.” Mrs Hathaway dried her hands on her apron, looking William over. “It’s very kind of you, Master William.”

  “Not at all. Mistress Anne should soak her ankle in cold water. Could I fetch water from the well?”

  “Tom will do it,” said Anne. The stout boy, about ten, didn’t move. “Please, Thomas.”

  When he still didn’t move William said easily, “It would be too heavy for him. Let me fetch it. Can I set you down somewhere?”

  “It’s not too heavy for me!”

  “Well, if you’re sure.”

  “Clever,” Anne whispered as the child shot out the door. Aloud she added, “Mother, I shan’t be in your way; William, if you don’t mind taking me to the hall. You remember where it is?”

  “Of course.” And he carried her through the connecting door. He remembered this house quite well, but there had been changes since his last visit; a new fireplace, a ceiling put into the hall for rooms to be made above. Here too everything was very clean and tidy. There were excellent pewter and brass pieces on the mantel and sideboard, handsome furniture, three painted hangings. The air smelt of lavender, beeswax polish and the flowers that stood in an earthenware jug. The table, covered with a crimson cloth, had eight chairs arranged around it and two more armed chairs stood by the hearth. William deposited Anne in one of these and knelt to undo her boot.

  “You needn’t.”

  “Sorry.” Awkwardly he stood up.

  “No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound offended. It’s just that I’m not used to people helping me.”

  “Then let me.”

  He knelt down again as she leaned forward. Their heads cracked painfully together.

  “Sorry!”

  “No, my fault.” Feeling stupid, he whisked the boot undone.

  One of the little girls from the kitchen came in, very carefully clutching a tray on which stood two pewter tankards. “Please, sir, Mother says you’re to have a cup of ale for your kindness to Anne.”

  “Thanks.” He grabbed the tankards before they could spill.

  “One’s for Anne. And Mother says you must stay to supper.”

  “How very kind of her. But I am afraid I cannot.” He handed Anne her drink.

  “Oh.”

  “Another time, perhaps?” Anne said, then blushed.

  “I’d like that. Er – excellent ale.”

  “Anne brewed it,” said the little girl. “She’s good at that.”

  “She is indeed. What’s your name?”

  “Frances. What’s yours?”

  “William.”

  “My little brother’s name is William.”

  “There are a lot of us about. Frances is a pretty name.”

  “I know. Anne has a cousin Frances.”

  “Yes I have,” she said quickly. “But I haven’t seen her lately. Frances, ask mother for some bandages for my ankle, please.” When the child had gone she said quietly, “Don’t mention what we were talking about to my stepmother, please. I’ll arrange it, but she… Well, best not to mention it.”

  “All right. The children are your stepmother’s?”

  “Yes, my half-brothers and sisters. Four of them; Frances, Margaret, Thomas and William. My own brother and sister – you’ll remember Bartholomew and Catherine – are both married now and moved away.”

  “I see. Should I go to help Thomas with the water?”

  “Yes. Oh – no.”

  Heaving and staggering under the weight, slopping water everywhere, the child dumped the bucket down in front of Anne. “Does it hurt a lot?”

  “If I stand on it.”

  “Don’t stand on it, then,” he said with a smirk William would have enjoyed smacking off his face. Instead, he gave the brat the look that worked on his own younger brothers, and Thomas fled. Affecting great interest in the proverb on one of the painted hangings, William turned away so Anne could in modesty take her stocking off; also he didn’t want to discover she had ugly legs. When he heard the rustle of skirts again he turned back. Grimacing, she was dipping her toes into the water. She had pretty ankles. Very pretty.

  “All the way in,” he said too loudly. “Plunge it in. Your foot. Into the water.”

  “I know, but it’s straight from the well, and cold.”

  “That’s the idea. Go on, screw up your courage to the sticking point.” She did so. “And keep it in. All the way in. Until the water’s no longer cold. Then bandage it.” He finished his ale and put the tankard down, too sharply. “I had better go.”

  “If you must. But if you would like to come again? For supper?”

  “Please.”

  “Good. Although… no, that’s all right… I may be going to stop with an elderly cousin of mine over at Temple Grafton, it’s she I was visiting today. I, er, I…”

  Gently, remembering something she had said, drawing a conclusion from her family’s unconcern today, he said, half under his breath, “I’m not the only one unhappy at home.”

  “Quite right,” she answered as softly. “Useful to have an elderly cousin whose daughter is going away. But I’ll see you next marke
t day. Thursday. Could you be free for dinner? I’ll arrange it with my cousin Frances.”

  “Thank you. But don’t mention what we talked about to my parents, please.”

  “Of course not. William, thank you for helping me today. I’m sure I’ve held you up; please explain to your father and give him my apologies and thanks.”

  “I shall. I hope your ankle mends soon. Well, goodbye.”

  “Goodbye.”

  “Good manners, that boy,” Mrs Hathaway said when she came to remove the bucket.

  “Yes, he’s a very pleasant lad.”

  “Good looking, too.”

  Bent over to bandage her ankle, Anne didn’t have to meet the other woman’s eye. “I suppose so,” she said indifferently. “Takes after his father. His mother’s much lighter in colouring. By the way, Mother, my cousin’s daughter said that if you can spare me she would like to go away on Monday. She wants to see her new grandchild in Bristol.”

  “I can spare you.”

  “Good. Two months at least.”

  “That’s through sheep-shearing and harvest.”

  “If you can’t manage…”

  “Oh, I can manage.”

  “Then I’ll send word that I’ll be at Temple Grafton on Monday.”

  “Very well. Don’t encourage that Shakspere boy to hang around you. He’s far too young, but people will still talk.”

  “Oh, Mother,” said Anne, “don’t be so ridiculous.”

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